The Detour Gets You Home
by AnxietyGrrl
Summary: Ray/Neela. Season 12 AU. If "I Do" had gone a little differently, and the fallout thereof. R/N as romantic comedy instead of tragic melodrama.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: "The Detour Gets You Home"  
Author: anxietygrrl at hotmail dot com  
Fandom: **_**ER  
**_**Pairing: Ray/Neela  
****Rated: M for sexiness  
****Status: WIP  
****Notes: Season 12 AU. Hey, kids! Let's all take a trip in our fanfic time machine! **

* * *

"Everybody _hates_ me."

He guided her up the stairs to their apartment with an arm around her waist to keep her from stumbling. Not so much because she was totally wasted, but because she was just wasted enough to keep forgetting to adjust her stride to the limited range of movement allowed by the sari.

"Nobody hates you." Between the bar, the ride home, and the short walk here, it was at least the fifth time he'd said it. "They're just...a little annoyed. They'll get over it."

"_Michael_ hates me." She fell against the door with a little _thump _while he fished out his keys.

"Well...yeah, okay, I'll give you that one. And I think Pratt wants to kick you in the shins." She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, and he saw her beginning to sink into what would probably be a three week pout. "You're going to have to move if you want to go inside." She was slow to react, so he put his hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her aside so he could let them in.

"He didn't have to _break up_ with me." She kicked off her shoes and shuffled gracelessly to the couch, where she collapsed in a sullen heap.

He laughed, but immediately felt bad for it. He knew she was hurting, and it wasn't that he was unsympathetic, but for some reason all evening long he'd been fighting off an inappropriately good mood. He couldn't explain it, really. There she was, his good friend--probably his _best_ friend--as upset as he'd ever seen her, and yet he felt strangely cheerful. He hoped it didn't show.

"I don't know, I think that's a rule, actually. Somebody leaves you at the altar, you pretty much have to break up with them." He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch before settling in next to her, leaving a cushion's worth of space to accommodate her glare.

"I didn't _leave him_ at the _altar_," she protested. "There wasn't even an altar. And it was at least twenty minutes beforehand! It's not like I walked out in the middle of the vows! I just...I admitted I was having second thoughts and then it all just..." She stared into the dimness of the room as if she'd find the right word floating there. "Unravelled," she said at last. "If anyone's saying I left him at the altar, that's...that's just inaccurate. Anyway, I'm the one who was dumped."

"Maybe you can clear all that up in your press release."

"Oh, you're funny. You should have been a comedian instead of a rock star."

"Yeah, I'm multitalented," he agreed with a nod. He caught her smiling, just a little flash of amusement before glumness overtook her again. "Hey," he said. "You'll be okay."

She sighed and shook her head. "We were so good together. You know? It was so...it was like a storybook. I thought we loved each other enough to make it work. I really thought...I mean I really wanted..." She blinked back tears. "He was supposed to be the one. How could it all just...fall apart?"

He looked down, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, and much less cheerful. He regretted what he said next as soon as it was out of his mouth. "Yeah, how could two perfect people not be perfect together?"

She looked more sad than hurt. "I'm not perfect," she said, as if she were admitting a failure.

"Oh, I know," he assured her.

She studied him, as best she could while still fuzzy from alcohol, and said, "You do, don't you?" He wasn't sure how to respond to that, but she saved him by continuing, "Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Michael and I didn't really know each other as well as I thought we did."

"Maybe," he offered noncommittally.

"Why does romance always have to be so _difficult_?" she asked. "Why can't it be easy?" She waved a hand in the space between them. "Like this?"

He stood abruptly and headed for the fridge. "Yeah, I don't know. Do you want a beer?"

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked, and chuckled at her own joke.

He pulled out a mostly full six pack of Heineken and muttered, "I think I'm trying to get _me_ drunk." While he dug around in the kitchen drawer for the bottle opener, she started musing again.

"I don't know, maybe I was trying too hard." She grabbed for a beer as soon as he thunked them down on the coffee table. "I was always putting my best foot forward with him, afraid to mess up, or be less than..." She trailed off, frowning and scrunching up her face as she strained to unscrew the pry-off cap. He sat next to her, closer this time, and leaned in to assist. His left hand steadied hers around the bottle while he popped off the top. "Thanks," she said. "I mean with you I don't _care_."

"Thanks," he returned.

"I thought I could be what he needed. Maybe I was just fooling myself," she concluded morosely. "I'm good at that."

"Neela. Look." She reluctantly turned to do so. "You keep saying maybe this, maybe that. But you made the right call."

"D'you think?"

"If you weren't sure, you weren't sure. What were you supposed to do, marry him anyway? It's better to figure it out now than six months or a year from now, right?"

"I suppose."

"There, see? In the long run, you did him a favor."

"Maybe," she said, without conviction. "Or maybe I just broke a good man's heart." She tipped back her beer and took a long, sulky swig.

He fidgeted a little, holding back an irritated sigh. "Tell you what, let's talk about something else for a while, get your mind off what a horrible person you are."

"That's not going to work."

"Sure it will." He paused to drink while he fumbled for a change of subject. "Pick a topic. Did you ever have any pets? What's your favorite Air Supply song? Why'd you go into medicine?"

"No pets, 'All Out of Love', and...I suppose because everyone expected it." She drifted into a quieter sort of melancholy, which had not been his goal. "And I went along. I always...go along."

"Well. Not always. Today being kind of a spectacular example."

Her lips twitched with another brief hint of a smile. "What about you?"

"'Making Love Out of Nothing at All.' Hands down." He felt a minor rush of triumph when she actually laughed.

"No, I mean, why did you want to be a doctor?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"I guess..." He wanted to give her a good answer, a true answer, but he didn't want to have a discussion about it. Finally, he settled on, "Maybe because no one expected it."

After a moment, she said simply, "Oh."

"Plus," he added, with a practiced insouciant grin, "after college I didn't want to get a real job."

"Ah ha, of course." She raised an index finger as if about to make a point, and then lowered it again. They sat in easy silence for a minute, and then she turned to him, her face soft and thoughtful. "I'll bet at school you were one of those _secret_ smart kids. Afraid people wouldn't think you were _cool._"

He raised his eyebrows, happily surprised. "Did you just say I was smart?"

She seemed a little stung. "I know you're smart."

"Sometimes you look at me like you can't believe I can tie my own shoes."

"Well," she acknowledged. "You're also an idiot."

He couldn't argue. "So what were you like in school?"

"I was always good at science."

"Yeah, but you were probably good at everything," he speculated. "Aced every test, student council, played three sports, prettiest girl in class..."

"No, just football and swimming," she corrected. "And I was rubbish at swimming."

"Did you know sometimes you get Britisher when you're drunk?"

"Piss off." She blinked, slowly, and tilted her head. "You think I'm pretty?"

"Uh, I..." The question angled her brows just so over her wide, liquid brown eyes. Her make-up was smudged, and her hair was a mess, loops of it coming loose from her bun and falling around her face. Her complexion was flushed from alcohol. She was a slight, warm certainty wrapped in a column of cool, crumpled silk, nestled into the corner of his couch. Altogether, in the low light of the apartment, she seemed to...she sort of _glowed._

Finally he was able put a name to the thing he'd been feeling all night: it was _relief. _Guilty, giddy _relief_.

"I think you're pretty _drunk_," he heard himself say, and practically jumped up from his seat. "It's way too quiet in here. Want some music? I think we need some music." He faced the shelves and flipped through CDs, ignoring the dull clink of her beer bottle coming to rest on the coffee table and the rustle of her dress as she came up behind him.

"Ray."

"Yeah?" A poke between the shoulder blades got him to turn around. "Yes, jeez, what?"

"You _do_!" She jabbed at him again, in the chest this time. "You think I'm _pretty_! Admit it."

He crossed his arms and stared over her shoulder at the kitchen. "Well, yeah..." Her reaction was confusing. Sure, she was teasing him, that he got. But why would she be surprised? "I'm not _blind._"

"But..." She looked like a little kid trying to do a really hard math problem. "It doesn't make any sense."

"You're telling me. What are we talking about, here?"

"But you never--. If I'm the prettiest then why didn't you--? You never even _tried, _so I just assumed you didn't--. You'll flirt with anything with breasts!" She flung her arms out dramatically. "I have breasts. What's wrong with my breasts?"

His mouth hung open for a few seconds before he could make words come out. "Nothing! I mean. I never flirted with you? 'Cause that doesn't seem right."

"That's what I'm saying."

"Wait, did you _want_ me to flirt with you?"

"No! Of course not. I don't know. Maybe. Once. A long time ago. That's not the point."

"Please, tell me what the point is here, 'cause I'm lost."

"The point is...the point...well I'm just curious, really, because it's not like you're _discriminating_, so...why not me?"

Right then, at that moment, damned if he knew. So he improvised. "Look, you know, you can just tell when someone's not interested, right? When you're not their type."

"I'm certainly _not_ your 'type.'"

"Yeah, I know, but I actually meant that I'm not _your_ type."

"_Ob_viously."

"Right." He rolled his eyes. "So...there you go. And now we're buddies, so...it all worked out."

"Right," she echoed. "Yes, friends. All for the best, then."

"Sure. Pals."

"Best mates."

"Absolutely."

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"I just...I want to thank you. For sticking around tonight, and taking me home, and...everything."

"No problem." She was studying him again, and standing very close, as if she were expecting something. She smelled like tequila and limes, and the bathroom after she showered in the morning, layered with the fading notes of some rich, balmy perfume she'd never worn before. "It's, um. That's what I'm here for."

"Because we're best mates."

He could only nod.

"Ray."

"Yeah," he rasped. The radiator ticked. The refrigerator hummed.

"I think you're pretty, too."


	2. Chapter 2

The declaration hovered between them. If she had stopped there, the next day it would have been a jokey sort of compliment about which she felt silly and he felt smug. If she were a little less tipsy, she would have stopped there. But she kept spilling words into the silence.

"You could kiss me now. If you wanted."

"Like..." Her eyes were drawn to the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "Hypothetically?"

"What? No, like--oh, god." She hid her face in her hands. "Sorry. Forget it, sorry. I thought--. I thought that was a _moment_, or something. God, I can't believe this day just got more humiliating."

She turned to retreat, but he grasped her wrist to keep her near. "Neela." He slid his hand up her forearm, tracing the path of the median nerve with his thumb, and stopped to stroke the delicate skin inside her elbow. "Yeah, I want to kiss you."

"Oh," she breathed. "That's..." _Confusing. Inappropriate. A very bad idea_. "That's lovely..."

Suddenly unsteady, she rocked forward on the balls of her feet just as he leaned in, and so when their lips met it was more an awkward bumping-into-each-other than any kind of grand, cinematic moment of passion. But the connection was immediate and real, and with a soft giggle, a slight turn of the head, a brief rubbing of noses, the awkwardness dissolved into a kiss that was tentative but surprisingly sweet. It was...well, it was lovely. When they parted, arms at their sides, he curled his fingertips around hers as if unwilling to break contact. And though she knew she looked a mess--_was_ a mess--she _felt_ lovely. Maybe this was just her latest terrible idea in a recent series of same, but after such a strange disaster of a day, she welcomed the feeling. If she was going to follow her impulses, why stop at the one that was telling her, quite insistently, to press up onto her toes and kiss him again?

So she did, mouth open in readily accepted invitation. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she settled her weight against him. His hands circled her waist and found the bare skin of her midriff under her sari. She'd started the day in bed with one man, and now here she was pinning an entirely different man against a bookcase. If she were less drunk, she might feel more ashamed of that, but then again, it was just _Ray_, after all. Just good old, familiar Ray, cradling the back of her head and tangling his fingers in her hair, gingerly pulling out the last of the pins. She and Ray, they did things together. They went shopping; bickered; watched television; shared food. And now, apparently, they shared saliva. What was a little--or a lot--of French kissing? A little casual comfort between friends?

But the way she dragged her teeth over his bottom lip didn't exactly feel casual, and when she drew back and saw his expression, it certainly didn't _look_ casual. He looked..._concussed. _

It was dear, and almost comical. She touched his face, and the way he closed his eyes opened a deep well of terrifying fondness inside her, and she began to feel a little lightheaded herself. She tucked her head under his chin and found she fit there very nicely. Somehow the gentle skimming of his knuckles over her cheek and jaw was more intimate, and more sobering, than if his hand were groping her ass.

Which the other one was.

When she related the episode to Abby later, she'd say, "And then somehow we ended up in my room..." as if it were some kind of _In Search of..._ Bermuda Triangle mystery instead of the clearly logical chain of events that began as she worked at the buttons of his shirt. His _dress _shirt, which she'd never seen before--he must have excavated his closet to find an acceptable outfit at short notice. When she slipped her hands under the plackets she said, "I always imagined this would be one of your stupid tee shirts."

His hands froze on her hips and _gripped_. "_What_?"

"I said I--. Nothing. Never mind."

And then he _smiled_, and truthfully, everything between then and when the backs of her knees knocked against the bed frame _was _a little fuzzy.

His shirt was hanging from one arm; she pulled it off and tossed it behind her onto the bed. Unwrapping her was a little more complicated. It was easy enough to pull the long trail of silk over her shoulder. They laughed as she spun around once and the fabric unwound around her torso, leaving her top still covered modestly by the form-fitting choli, skirt tucked securely into her petticoat.

"You're standing on my pallu."

"Your _what_?"

"The drapey bit."

"Oh. Sorry." He tugged ineffectually at the pleats at her waist. "How do you get this thing off?"

"I'm not even sure how I got it on. The woman at the shop did it. I haven't worn one in years." Her smaller, more dextrous fingers displaced his. "I think there's a pin." He brushed her hair aside and bent to kiss her neck while she searched for the fastener. Something about the smell of him and the warmth of his skin made her fingers fumble, and she started babbling. "It's--_oh--_it's not even the right color, you know. And I don't even have mendhi. My grandmother would kill me."

"Can we not talk about your relatives right now?" A reasonable request, given the circumstances, but it was more his breath against her ear as he whispered it that rendered her mute. He covered her hands with his and together they managed to loosen the pleats, unfolding yards of silk until it had all fallen in an ivory pool at their feet.

Her palms glided over his chest and arms and then they were kissing again. It was hard to believe there was ever anything tentative about it. Her right hand drifted up and down his back, nails scraping lightly. He pulled her close against him and she inhaled sharply, eyes wide. Her nails pressed hard into his skin, just below his tattoo. Frantically, she hitched her ankle-length petticoat up over her knees and threw her left leg around him. He adjusted it slightly, sliding his hand under her knee, up the underside of her thigh, and under the white satin, now bunched around her hips. His fingertips just reached the bottom of her knickers, and flicked lightly at the elastic. She pointed her toes and curled her leg around tighter.

His hand flew up her spine and under the hem of the half-shirt to unfasten her bra. She raised her arms and let him pull both over her head. The petticoat fell down again as he took a step back to maneuver and she lowered her foot to the floor. Bare to the waist, she half-sat, half-fell on the bed and onto her back.

For a moment they stilled, breath coming fast and heavy in their chests. She stared at him staring at her until she couldn't any longer, and reached out her hand.

He leaned over her and she pulled him down by the shoulders until they were skin to skin. As they kissed she raked her fingers through his hair, tracing lazy little circles over his scalp. He shifted to support himself on one arm, and she lifted her chin to give his mouth access to her throat, and the pulse racing through her carotid. Then across her clavicle and down her sternum, until finally her head and shoulders jerked back deep into the mattress, and he demonstrated quite convincingly that there was, in fact, nothing at all wrong with her breasts.

The arch of her back relaxed a bit as he progressed lower, but her abdominal muscles tensed, and when his bristly chin tickled her stomach, she laughed. He crouched in front of her, looked up, and smiled. Her dangling feet flexed and lifted away from the floor. She nearly kicked him accidentally, so she trailed her foot up his inner thigh by way of apology. He grasped her ankles and slid his palms over her calves as he leaned forward between her knees.

Slowly, he began to roll the waistbands of her underclothes downward over her hips, and pressed his thumbs into the soft hollows below her pelvic bone. She made a sound, a low, humming sigh, and laced her fingers over the back of his neck.

She felt wonderfully hazy, weightless, and warm. And there was a thought, an elusive idea floating barely out of reach at the edges of her mind. His lips brushed over her navel, then lower, and lower, and then with the slightest scrape of his teeth she exhaled loudly and closed her eyes, rolling her neck and letting her body twist whichever way it wanted. _I've completely lost my senses_, she thought. And without quite realizing she'd spoken aloud, she said, "I can't believe I almost got married today."

He stopped. Her eyes blinked open. Seconds passed, and she felt a sudden sinking as he pulled away and slipped through her hands.

She propped herself up on her elbows and repeated, "I almost got married today."

He nodded at the floor, cleared his throat before replying huskily, "Yeah."

She sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at the discarded heap of material he knelt on. "This was my wedding dress."

He backed away uncomfortably. He didn't have anything to say to that.

"Ray..."

"Guess we got a little carried away, huh?" He flashed her a tight, joyless smile.

"I'm sorry...?" She reached for something to cover herself, and realized she was holding his shirt against her chest.

He shook his head and gave an awkward, jerky shrug. "Nah. Yeah, no, that's... This, uh. I know. This isn't you." He laid a hand lightly over her knee, and then gently pulled the hem of her petticoat down to her feet. "If we went any further you'd hate at least one of us in the morning, right?"

He stood--carefully--and she turned her face away, embarrassed for both of them, digusted with herself. There on the nightstand, where it had always been, and where it had been forgotten tonight until now, she saw the framed photograph of Michael in his uniform. How many colossal misjudgements could one woman make in one day?

"I didn't mean to... I just felt so..."

"Don't worry about it," he said as he backed toward the door. "It's nothing."

She looked up at him, framed in her doorway, half-naked and aroused, hair going every which way. "It's nothing," she repeated softly, and held the shirt closer, suddenly very cold. For one brief moment they made eye contact, and she almost said something else, but then his posture changed. She remembered his expression from earlier, after they'd first kissed. There'd been nothing careless or too-confident about it; there was nothing left of it on his face now.

"Besides, if I'm going to get somebody out of her wedding dress I guess it oughta be...you know..."

"A supermodel after a runway show?" The joke felt clumsy and a little mean, but it did its job.

He nodded and let out a breath that passed for a laugh. "Exactly. You know me so well."

"I do." She cringed at her choice of words, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Yeah, so I'm just gonna go..." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder and she nodded silently, sure she was blushing.

"Right. Okay. Goodnight."

"'Night."

He turned to go. While his hand still lingered on the doorjamb she said, "Ray." He paused, but didn't reply. "Don't... don't be insulted if I don't..._remember _this tomorrow. Okay?"

"...Sure." His head dropped, and he walked out, closing the door behind him.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. She stripped off the damned petticoat at last and kicked it to the floor. When she heard the shower go on she winced, but a few minutes later she gave in and reached down to resolve her situation. It left her achy and unsatisfied.

Afterward, she turned on her side to wait for sleep, alone, his shirt pillowed under her head.


	3. Chapter 3

As it happened, faking a blackout over coffee and Cheerios wasn't necessary. They didn't even see each other the next day. He worked a double. She slept in, and since the time off had already been approved, spent the first day of her 'honeymoon' moping about in her pyjamas, indulging in junk food and Lifetime television. Nothing patched a broken heart, she hoped, like an old-fashioned post-break-up wallow. Focusing all her doom and gloom on her failed relationship was also a useful distraction from her new problem, the one that probably wouldn't be fixed by a good cry, a bad movie, and a pint of Cherry Garcia.

Abby called around sundown. "How are you doing?"

"I don't know. How long did it take you to get over Carter when he broke off your engagement?"

"Holy shit, I was engaged to _Carter_? What, like a million years ago?"

"Give or take. So you're saying..."

"It takes as long as it takes. That's all the wisdom I've got. Unless you want me to start throwing recovery slogans at you. One day at a time. Fake it 'til you make it. Let go and let--"

"All right, all right."

As she went back to tearily packing up bundles of letters and photos, she wondered what it meant that she'd almost married someone whose entire relationship with her could fit into a shoebox. Ankle boots, yes, but still a shoebox. It hurt, but there was no point in leaving obvious reminders around. She wasn't quite ready to put the box up on the highest closet shelf, but she might be able to slide it under the bed in a few days. She also wondered what it meant that she'd moved so quickly from denial (nine a.m.--_I should call him_) to acceptance (eleven p.m.--_It's probably for the best_). She'd fallen in love with him because he loved her, and because he was wonderful, and those things were still true, but something about the look of disappointment on his face yesterday--not anger, not betrayal, just an awful _disappointment_...

Well. It was probably for the best.

The strange part was that for all her heartache, the only practical thing she'd lost was the _idea_ of them, the notion that someday they'd be a real couple, in a real relationship, the kind where they did things together, and saw each other every day. Then again, maybe that's what had scared her off. Maybe she was more comfortable with the concept than the reality.

_Maybe I just suck at love_, she thought. _And I'll die an old maid. With a small dog. Or a budgie_. Itwas after midnight, and she was holed up in her room with her laptop, playing four suit Spider Solitaire and ignoring backissues of _JAMA, _when she finally heard Ray come in. She tensed, waiting for him to call out a greeting, hoping he wouldn't, yet oddly dispirited when none came.

She heard the tv go on, heard him moving things around in the kitchen. Once she thought she saw his shadow pass by her slightly open door. She considered venturing out under some pretense, to retrieve a book or a glass of water, just to test the atmosphere, but she wasn't that brave. It wasn't that she was afraid she couldn't control herself, but that she couldn't control her thoughts. What if she said 'hello' or 'how was your day?' but all she could think was that twenty-four hours ago she'd been quite eager to let him put his tongue in her mouth? And...other places. What if he said 'fine' or 'did you get the mail today?', but her brain got stuck on how she'd been exhilarated, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, by the visual contrast of his pale fingers stroking her--

She snapped the laptop shut. She stared at the shoebox sitting at the foot of her bed. She recited mnemonics for all the unsexiest parts of the anatomy.

She had to use the bathroom, but that could wait until he went to bed. To sleep. That could wait until he went to _sleep_.

The next few days passed in much the same way. During the day she went to movies and museums. At night he went out, doing whatever it was that he did. _Or whoever_, she thought sourly once, before reminding herself that she wasn't supposed to care. When she went back to work on Monday she found that he'd gone out of his way to trade shifts with people, rearranging his schedule to avoid her. It was a relief, but it also stung a little. And it was another reminder, as if she needed one amongst all the whispers and sidelong looks, that nearly everyone else she worked with had known and liked Michael before they'd ever met her. Ray should've been an ally. Instead, when they did work together they were almost like strangers. Their interaction was professional, and courteous, and weird, and she hated it.

Even Abby wasn't too wrapped up in her own personal drama to notice something was off.

"What's up with you and Ray?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're being all polite to each other. It's creeping me out. Did you have a fight or something?"

"...Something."

"What, did you sleep together?" Abby joked.

Neela squinted at her patient's chest film. "Does this look like an effusion to you? I think I need an MRI."

"Oh my God, did you _sleep together_?!"

"Shhh! No! Of course not."

"But you did 'something.'"

"The air quotes really aren't necessary."

"When did this happen?"

"After the wedding. The non-wedding. Can we discuss this later?"

"You bet your ass we will. Dinner break?"

Several hours later, over a plate of cheese fries at Ike's, she found herself saying, "...and then somehow we ended up in my room. And things...escalated."

"Escalated. But you didn't have sex?"

"No."

"Didn't have sex like Bill and Monica didn't have sex, or actually didn't have sex?"

"Nice reference. Very topical. And everyone's pants stayed on at all times, if that's what you're asking."

"That was it, yeah."

Neela slumped in her seat. "God, what a disaster."

"Was it that bad?"

"Bad? No, it was..." She looked to the side, pretending to try and spot their waitress. "No."

"Huh."

Neela turned back to see Abby scrutinzing her. "What? What does 'huh' mean?"

"Nothing. I just didn't think he was your type, that's all."

"Yes, that's been established, thanks."

"No need to get cranky, it was just an observation."

"I wish this had never happened. I don't know what to do. Everything's _weird_."

Abby nodded knowingly. "Oh, because he likes you."

She dropped a cheese fry onto her plate. "He _what_?"

"Do they not have that expression in England?"

"You're crazy. That's crazy."

"It was just a hunch." She shrugged. "I could be wrong."

"What would make you say that?"

"Just little things. The way he was hanging around that night."

"You're wrong."

"I'm probably wrong."

"Except..."

"Except?"

"I don't know. There was a moment--or _moments_, I guess--when it seemed like maybe..." She trailed off, frowning, and plucked listlessly at her fries.

"Huh."

"Stop saying 'huh.'"

"Sorry. So what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I don't want to move," she said. Her whinging tone was annoying even to her own ears, but she couldn't help herself. It was so good to finally talk about it.

"Moving is a pain in the ass."

"It's not just that. I like it there, and...well, I suppose things could go back to normal eventually. That's possible, right? If I just gave it some time?"

"Anything's possible."

"It's so awful right now, though. We try to ignore each other, and when we can't it's so _tense _and awkward_. _I--this is so embarrassing--I can't stop staring at his hands. He has these callouses?" She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers to illustrate. "You know, from fingering?"

Abby sputtered, and Neela wished she could crawl under the table as she watched her friend bent over, turning red from laughter. "The guitar! From playing the guitar!"

"Uh huh," said Abby, wiping her eye with a napkin.

"You're never going to stop mocking me for this, are you?" She decided to skip telling her about the dream she had where she was standing at the kitchen sink--in her scrubs, for some reason--and he came up behind her and-- "What do I do?" she asked plaintively.

"Okay, number one, are you asking me for advice on your love life? Because the coat says 'Lockhart', not 'Dear Abby.' Number two, you're asking _me _for advice on your _love life_? Seriously?"

"I'm desperate. And it's not my 'love life,'" she corrected. "It's _Ray_."

"Well," Abby said, "the way I see it, there's only one way to resolve this."

"What's that? Move? Get a new job? Fake my death and leave the country?" She stirred her drink with the straw a little before raising it to her lips.

"I think maybe you have to sleep with him."

And then Neela aspirated Diet Coke with lemon. "You're right," she said, coughing through her napkin. "You give _terrible _advice."


	4. Chapter 4

Over the last couple weeks he'd spent a lot of the time he wasn't working staring at her bedroom door. Staring and thinking. Wondering what she was thinking, whether it was anything close to what he was thinking, and deciding probably not, or one of them would be on the other side of that door. But if he thought about _that_ too long...

Well, he'd also spent a lot of time watching sports, practicing bar chords, and ranking and re-ranking the top ten Jimmy Page solos.

He knew that eventually they'd have to have the conversation, but he was willing to let that happen on her timetable. Maybe that made him kind of a chickenshit, but that didn't really bother him too much. Plus, the longer he avoided her, the more breathing room he gave himself. Another week or so, and he'd definitely be able to look at her without seeing her on her back, all tousled and beckoning. Hell, a week? Probably right now, if he had to, he could even stand right next to her without remembering how soft and warm she was as she moved underneath him, or tripping over fantasies about dragging her into a supply closet and making her make that _noise_ again, the one she made when he--

_Five, "Whole Lotta Love." Four, "Dazed and Confused." _

He was standing in the ambulance bay, waiting for an incoming MVC, and that's where she found him, shaking his head at himself and thinking, _Jesus, dude, get a grip. Beckoning?_

"Hey."

"Oh, hey," he said. His back itched in the spot where she'd dug in her fingernails.

"Slow day," she noted.

"Yeah." He stared ahead, hands in his coat pockets.

A pause, and then, "Anything interesting on the way?"

He shrugged. "Not really. Drunk driver flipped his Lexus. You?"

"Nursing home knife fight."

Well, there was an icebreaker. "You're kidding."

"That's what dispatch said."

"Probably gang-related," he declared, and risked a direct glance to catch her smile. One of the downsides of avoiding her: he hadn't seen that in way too long.

"Hm. Or someone changed the channel during _Judge Judy_."

"Man, old people today are out of control. It's all sex and drugs and Lawrence Welk..."

"Lawrence Welk would make anyone violent."

And just like that they were standing around, laughing at each other's dumb jokes again. It couldn't really be that easy, could it?

"Ray..."

Guess not. "What?"

"You don't have to bark at me."

"I didn't--" He scratched the back of his head, and asked again more politely, "What is it?"

"Don't you think that...? Well we can't go on forever pretending it never happened, can we?"

"Is that what we've been doing?"

She looked at her shoes. "Not very successfully, I suppose. I don't know, maybe I'm making too much of it, maybe it shouldn't be a big deal. These things happen, right?"

"All the time," he agreed. A gust of wind blew her hair across her face and she brushed away a few strands that had gotten stuck to her Chapstick. He couldn't keep himself from asking, "So...it was a big deal to you?"

She froze for a second or two, and then stammered, "It was--. I--. Well, it's the sort of thing that can really change things between two people. If...if they let it."

"Yeah. Look, I--"

"And I've been thinking about that, that aspect of it...where we go from here."

Now, as best as he could tell, she was looking at _his_ shoes.

"You have?" His voice came out quieter that he'd expected.

She nodded, and folded her arms, tucking hands under opposite elbows. "Quite a lot, actually."

"Have you...come to any conclusions?" They accidentally made eye contact, and he felt his heart rate begin to climb, as if he were exerting himself simply by having this conversation. Her shirt was open slightly at the collar, so he focused on the hollow of her throat. That didn't help.

"I was thinking that maybe we could... I mean there's no reason _not _to... Once some time has gone by... Probably the best thing would be to..."

He wanted to step closer, but his feet wouldn't move. "What, Neela?" he asked softly. He remembered how she'd looked at him that night, like he was something special. It wasn't the first time a woman had looked at him like that, but it was the first time he saw it and didn't want to run the other way.

The answer came in a rapid stream of words directed at the pavement. "It's probably best that we acknowledge it and move on and get right back to normal as soon as possible."

_...Oh_.

And then, like three little jabs to the gut, "Don't you think?"

He straightened his shoulders, clenched his fists inside his pockets. "Yeah, sure."

"Really?"

He looked out into the street. Where the fuck was the rig? What, did they hit traffic? "Yeah, whatever."

"So...we're on the same page, then?"

He shrugged, but it felt like an effort, unnatural. "Back to normal, absolutely." Whether it was out of pride or self-defense, he turned to face her with a careless, easygoing grin. "I was hoping you'd say that."

* * *

"Oh. Were you? Well that's...great. Really great." _Stop saying 'great,' _she thought. "I was really hoping this wouldn't have to spoil things between us, so...great."

"Nah, we're cool." He glanced at his watch. "Did you hear anything about traffic?"

"What? No." She looked back toward the ER doors for any nurses or orderlies coming through. There was no one. She wanted to go back inside, pretend they'd never had this conversation, go back to pretending the whole thing had never happened. Instead, she heard herself saying, "I was confused that night. You know? I guess you do. And drunk--not that that's an excuse, of course. But I wanted you to know that I didn't mean to...I wasn't trying to..."

"What?" He cocked his head, all good-natured sarcasm and reassurance. "Take advantage of me? Don't worry. I'm not in love with you now or anything."

Somehow, her body knew that the appropriate response to that was laughter. "_That's_ a relief," she said, her tone overly comic, too loud and too bright. "After all, I'd hate for things to get _awkward._"

"I know, right?" He paused for a moment, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, "I'm glad you didn't get married, though."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Why, because you got to second base?"

"I think I got tagged out sliding into third, actually."

She ducked her head, and tugged her labcoat closed.

"And no. 'Cause I would've missed having you around." She raised her head at that, but he was looking off into the street. "Anyway, it's fine. You were trying to forget someone. That's cool, I get that."

_That's cool, _she repeated in her head. _That's _cool_? _"So what was your deep, psychological motivation?"

"I'm a guy," he said. "I don't need one."

"Right," she nodded. Her smile stretched her face in uncomfortable ways. "I guess we're cool, then. Great. Moving past it, back to normal. I'm putting it out of my mind."

The last was nearly drowned out by the sound of paramedic vehicles approaching, and they were suddenly surrounded by nurses, residents, and EMTs. As they stepped off the curb she heard him say, "So it's still on your mind?"

She'd never been so glad to see a perforated bowel.

Later, Abby cornered her in the lounge.

"So how did your test balloon go over?"

"Sucked into a jet engine," she said, and slammed her locker shut. "I told you he wasn't interested."

"Oh well," said Abby. "His loss."


	5. Chapter 5

It was halfway through _Late Night with Conan O'Brien_, and she was scraping the sides off a sad little blob of Moose Tracks sliding around the bottom of its half-gallon container. Ray was out, might very well be out all night, but she was _fine_ with that, because she'd done a yeoman's job of getting back to normal...for a slightly adjusted definition of 'normal'. In a way, it was like when she'd first moved in: he did his own thing, and she absolutely refused to have a crush on him. And really, it _was_ for the best. Now that she'd switched to the surgical track she needed her focus to be solely on her work. Not on ridiculous men who were completely wrong for her.

She was peering into the carton by the light of the television, looking for any peanut butter cups she may have missed, when she heard the rattle and creak of the front door opening, followed by a cascade of feminine giggles. She shoved the ice cream under the coffee table and sank low into the sofa. Maybe they wouldn't notice her. Though they would probably notice Conan chatting up one of the _Desperate Housewives._ She groped blindly between the cushions for the remote.

"You're not serious," said the girl as they brought their conversation inside.

"I'm totally serious."

Wonderful. He was in full charm mode.

"He swallowed the whole thing?"

"I didn't say he _swallowed_ it."

"Oh my _god_!" The answering laughter could best be described as 'bubbly.' Like a white wine spritzer. _Or_, she thought, _like a tar pit._

Neela winced as the light flickered on. The clicking of high heels came to a halt, and Ray said, "Oh. You're up."

She tried to surreptitiously wipe her sticky hands on her pyjamas as she reluctantly stood and turned around. "Looks that way."

"I didn't think you'd still be up."

"Yes, I can see that." She raised a sticky, lint covered hand at a tall blonde in a short dress. "Hello. Don't mind me, I'm just the roommate." Tar Pit was disgustingly gorgeous. Frankly, a little out of his league.

"Um, yeah, sorry. This is Neela. Neela, this is...uh..."

"Riley," she filled in, and returned a cursory wave.

"Nice to meet you." She smiled politely, to which Riley had the odd reaction of stepping back and looking mildly alarmed. Whatever. Ray was bouncing nervously on his toes, looking back and forth between the two women. "I'll just get out of your way." As she walked around the far side of the couch, she tripped over her pantleg and stumbled into the bookcase. _Shit. _

"Are you--?"

"I'm fine," she said before Ray could approach, and proceeded to her room with as much dignity as she could muster.

Her bed was covered with laundry. As she began to fold, she heard Riley the bosomy Amazon ask where the bathroom was, and Ray directed her there. Neela winced as she remembered she'd left her waxing strips on the edge of the sink.

Ray knocked on her half-open door, but didn't wait for an acknowledgement before stepping inside. "She just came up to use the bathroom."

"None of my business." She concentrated on aligning the seams of a cheap cotton tank like the one she was currently wearing under her sweatshirt. "She's very pretty. I assume you checked her ID?"

"She's a professional dancer." He actually had the gall to sound defensive.

"Ahh. I see. I guess I don't need to ask where you met her."

"No, a _real_ dancer."

"Congratulations. Just try not to enjoy yourselves too much. I do have to work in the morning."

"Yeah, that's why I didn't think you'd still be up."

"I'm sorry if I put a crimp in your plans."

"You didn't--. Is this going to be a problem now?"

"It wouldn't be if you had the common courtesy to let me know ahead of time. Unless you don't care to spare me the humiliation."

"Humiliation?" He sounded genuinely confused.

She whirled around and held out her arms. "Well I'm not exactly dressed for company, am I?"

He rolled his eyes. "You look fine."

"I look ridiculous, Ray!"

"You look _fine_," he repeated. "Except..." He hesitated, and then said, "Come here."

"What? Why?"

"Just...come here." He stepped forward a little, and she backed away.

She frowned. "What are you doing?"

He reached around her to grab a Kleenex from her nightstand. "You...might have a little bit of chocolate on your face."

For a moment she could only stand there, mortified, while he got closer, but she was able to collect herself just in time, and snatched the tissue out of his hand.

* * *

She had fudge on her nose. He had forgotten Kiley's name the instant he saw she had fudge on her nose.

He watched her stand at the mirror and wipe at her face, muttering in embarrassment. "Lovely. Just lovely." When she was confident she'd gotten it all, she paused to look herself over. The result didn't seem to please her.

She was wearing her old flannel pants from Yale, the ones with the little bulldogs all over them. No matter how many times she rolled up the tattered hems, she always ended up shuffling around the apartment with just her toes peeking out from under them. And she was swimming inside that giant gray hoodie that must have come from an old boyfriend. At least it didn't say "ARMY" on it. The cuffs were pushed up to her elbows, and he thought of how she liked to pull her hands up inside the sleeves when she was cold. Underneath it she had on one of her thin tank tops. She self-consciously pulled up the zipper on her sweatshirt in a way that basically announced she wasn't wearing a bra. She was makeup-less, and her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.

Why did she have to be so damn beautiful?

"Well, what are you still doing here?" she snapped. "You don't want to keep Riley waiting. She can only do warmup stretches for so long."

"I told you, she had to use the bathroom."

"And I told you, it's none of my business." She pushed up her drooping sleeves and went back to her laundry, moving piles of clothes around to clear off a space on the bed just big enough to lie down on. He swallowed and looked away.

"You know, you might like her if you got to know her."

"I'm sure I'll have that chance during your long, meaningful relationship."

"What is your deal tonight?"

She faced him, arms crossed. "My _deal_?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know, Ray, why don't you tell me what my _deal_ is."

Her mirrored her posture. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me why you bared your teeth at my date?"

She huffed. "I did no such thing!"

"Right. So you don't care that I brought a girl home?"

"Why would I? You've brought lots of girls home. Lots and lots and lots."

"But not since..."

"Since what, hmm?" she asked icily. "Since what?"

"You don't get to be jealous!" he shouted, suddenly propelled from annoyance to anger.

"Oh, think a lot of yourself, do you?" she answered, matching him in volume. "I just don't see how you can be so...so..._cavalier_!"

"_Me_? You're the one who said it didn't mean anything!"

"I never!"

"'Don't be offended if I pretend this never happened'?"

"You're twisting my words!"

"Whatever." He pointed at her. "You're the one who closed the door on this, not me."

She shoved his hand away. "Oh really? Well you don't seem too broken up about it!"

"Did you expect me to wait around for you to decide you were interested?"

"A month ago I was in a serious relationship!"

"_You had a pen pal_!"

For a moment, he expected her to slap him. He even preemptively flinched. But she just stood there, furious, until finally she said, "You don't know anything about Michael and me."

"I know that he _dumped your ass_, princess."

Her eyes blazed. "Go to hell, Ray."

"Probably because he finally figured out what a _headcase_ you are."

"Just because you don't know what it's like to care deeply for someone--"

"Oh, I don't know what that's like, huh?!" She really had no idea. He wanted to _show_ her he knew what that was like, he wanted to--

"Fuck you," she declared. "I'm moving out."

* * *

He blinked. "What?"

"This isn't working." She had to turn away, afraid she would cry. "It worked for a while. It's not working anymore." She found her sneakers under the bed and put them on while he stood there, gaping.

"So you're just leaving?"

"I'll keep paying the rent until I find a sublet. Unless Riley wants to move in."

"Who? Oh." He looked out into the living room. "I don't think she stuck around."

"What a shame. I'm sure you could have had many happy minutes together." She shoved some clothes and her laptop into a backpack, then barreled past him to the living room to look for her purse and keys.

"Wait, you're leaving _now_?"

"I'll be back for my things."

"It's after one o'clock!"

"I know," she said, and managed to get out the door before the tears came.

"Neela!" He followed her into the hallway. "Where are you going?"

She didn't know. As she turned the corner to the stairs she called out the only answer she could think of. "I'm trying to forget someone."


	6. Chapter 6

She phoned Abby from a twenty-four hour JumboMart on Ashland.

"Who died?" she yawned. "If nobody died, I'm hanging up the phone."

"Sorry to wake you. Um, could I stay at your place for a while? Would you mind?"

She heard a mumble, and then Abby's voice, muffled, said, "It's Neela," and after a pause, "I don't know, I guess they had a fight or something."

_Of course. Just my luck. _"You're at Luka's."

"Yeah. Where are you?"

"JumboMart." Over the store speakers, Lionel Richie was telling some lucky girl she was three times a lady, whatever that meant. After that, if she recalled the sequence correctly from her time behind the counter, Phil Collins would be asking for one more night.

"Always there in your hour of need. Can I ask what happened?"

"I'm moving out."

"In the middle of the night?"

"It's complicated." She stared at the rotating soft pretzels, suspended in doughy purgatory from their wire rods. "And stupid. Mostly stupid."

"What did he do?"

"He..." What _did_ he do? Why was she really so upset with him? Just for saying mean things? "We argued. I can't be around him right now."

"I still say this whole thing could be resolved in ten minutes if you'd just jump him."

"I can't do that."

"Why not? I don't think he'd mind."

"Because I--. Ten minutes?"

"It's an estimate. I'll give you fifteen with foreplay, okay? You're young."

"Very generous of you, thanks. Anyway, that would only make things worse."

"It would break the tension."

"Yes, but it wouldn't... I think I..." She leaned against a refrigerator case and sighed deeply, watching the Redbull disappear behind the fog of her breath. "It's possible that I...feelings. Don't laugh."

"You _feelings_?"

"...Possibly. And you know what I mean."

"Five languages and you're reduced to 'I feelings'. You are in some deep crap, kiddo."

"This is all your fault, you know."

"Oh, I can't wait to hear this one."

"You introduced us. And you convinced me to come back to the hospital."

"You're right. If it wasn't for me you might be the _manager_ of that JumboMart. How can I make it up to you? Do you want me to get him fired? I have some pull with the boss."

"No, thanks. A roof over my head would be nice, though."

"Yeah, sure, as long as you need." There was muted conversation on the other end of the line, and then Abby asked, "Do you need us to come pick you up?"

Neela grimaced as she imagined the pathetic details of her personal life unfolding before Dr. Kovac. "God, no, thank you, no. That's not necessary."

"How were you planning to get there?"

'Planning' was perhaps too strong a word. "The bus, I suppose, if there aren't any cabs. Or I could get the Blue Line to Clark and Lake, I'm not terribly far, and then--"

"I don't know if I want you CTAing it all the way at this hour."

"I have my pepper spray and my rape whistle, I'll be fine."

Abby made a grumpy sort of Abby noise. "You still have your key, right?"

"Yes, it's--shit. It's in a safe place. In my desk. In my apartment." She dropped her backpack to the floor with an angry thud, no longer caring that the tile was suspiciously sticky.

"Okay, if I have to drive my ass over to meet you there I might as well come and pick you up."

Neela looked toward the ceiling, contemplating her predicament, and found herself staring into the convex security mirror. She saw her own foreshortened reflection, and the oddly stretched images of three other patrons. Two, she knew from having passed by them earlier, were visibly--and odoriferously--intoxicated. The third had just come in, and was standing at the front of the store, anxiously checking the aisles. That couldn't be--?

But it was, she saw as she looked down again, wishing she were invisible. The very same stupid jerk of an ex-roommate who less than an hour ago had loudly and bitterly called her a princess and a headcase, and impugned her one great love. And the stupid jerk had spotted her.

"You still there?"

"Never mind, Abby."

"Never mind which part?"

"Take your pick. The ride, I guess."

Ray stood a respectful distance away and waited for her to finish her call.

"What, is he there?"

"Yes."

"Huh. I still say my solution is worth considering."

"What, right here in the salty snacks?" Ray looked up curiously at that, with his stupid head tilt and his stupid eyebrows. "I'll talk to you in the morning, I guess. About...things. Tell Luka I apologise for waking you."

"Tell 'things' I said to stop being a dumbass."

She looked over at him--he appeared to be engrossed in the myriad varieties of Doritos--and seriously considered it.

* * *

He tried not to look like he was eavesdropping as Neela ended her call, and thought about how complicated life had gotten. Whatever happened to simpler times, when women weren't so much work, and all you had to choose from was Original or Cool Ranch?

After she hung up, she asked him, "Did you follow me?"

"Not exactly." He'd paced around for a while, angry and confused, and then he'd started to worry. "But I figured you weren't exactly dressed to go clubbing. And I found the ice cream on the floor, so I thought you might want pretzels."

Somehow, she took offense to that. "So just because I'm upset with you I must have _PMS_, is that it?"

"What? No, I just...I know that sometimes when you have ice cream you chase it with pretzels." Was _this_ going to start a fight now? He would never get her. Ever. "Look, it was a lucky guess. Next I was going to call the hospital and see if maybe you crashed there until your shift." And then he would've called Abby. He was really glad it hadn't come to that.

She thought about that for a while, and then said, "Well, you tracked me down, Columbo. Now what?"

"Listen, I might have said some stuff tonight that was..."

"Callous? Hurtful? Breathtakingly presumptuous?"

He had been going to say 'a little out of line.' "Sure."

"That's quite an apology."

"I'm sorry, okay? But you don't make it easy, you know?" He fought down his temper, but couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. "You don't know how you...how much you..." He completed the thought with a teeth-gritted growl of frustration.

Instead of lashing back, she just looked exhausted and kind of sad. "You're right. I'm sorry." And just like that, he couldn't be mad at her. How did she _do_ that? How did she make him want to take care of her and hold her and have no idea she was doing it?

"Then will you just...come home?"

She bit her bottom lip. "Home?"

"Just for tonight. If you want, tomorrow I'll help you pack. I'll even drive your stuff over to Abby's."

"You will?"

"Absolutely."

She closed her eyes and shook her head, and he wondered what he could have possibly said wrong. "Thanks."

"'Cause you're right, you know? If it's not working, which...it seems like it's not. It's probably better to call it a day." It would suck, but it would be better. For both of them.

"I can't believe you're being the mature one here." She hoisted up her backpack and said, "All right, let's go." He lifted the strap out of her hand before she could slip her arm through, and she frowned at him as he slung it over his shoulder. "I'm more than capable of carrying that."

As he adjusted the strap, he looked at the little wrinkle above her nose and sighed. "I know."

* * *

Two days later, he carried the last of her boxes into Abby's living room. She stood amidst the clutter and watched him place it carefully atop an already teetering cardboard tower. "Well. I suppose that's it, then."

He nodded, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I never realized you had so much stuff. The place is going to feel empty now."

She busied herself with rearranging boxes, hoping he couldn't see how that made her press her lips together and swallow her heart. "And you'll have to get a maid."

"Nah, I'll just go back to living in squalor." He checked his watch. "Hey, look, I've gotta go..."

"Oh." She patted her pockets and said, "I think I've got your key here somewhere. I took it off my keyring this morning so I wouldn't forget..."

"Hold onto it," he told her.

"What?" She closed her hand around the key and felt the teeth make an impression on her palm.

"In case you forgot anything, or want to pick up your mail, or...whatever."

"Okay." She slid it back into the front pocket of her jeans. "I guess that's it, then."

"You said that already."

"Did I?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "End of an era, though, right?"

"Yeah." She navigated her way around furniture and suitcases to meet him by the door. "So..." Not knowing what else to do, she extended her right hand.

He looked at her skeptically--but fondly, she thought--and accepted. His grip was firm but relaxed, and she tried to reciprocate. He slid his thumb across her knuckles. A handshake turned into a hug.

She inhaled against his shoulder. His tee shirt was very soft. His arms were very still. It occurred to her they'd never done this before. She thought she'd like to do it every day.

"So," he said into her hair.

And that was when Abby came out of her bedroom, holding the Yellow Pages open to the menu section. "Hey, do you feel like pizza or Chinese? Oh." She had the courtesy to be embarrassed, but she shot Neela a questioning look as the two of them pulled apart. "Sorry."

Ray backed toward the door. "I was just heading out."

"I'll let you know about the sublet," said Neela.

"Don't worry about it. I'll find somebody. There's always Craigslist."

"Okay, well...see you around."

"Sure."

And then he was gone.

Not long after, Abby regarded her sympathetically over a carton of General Tso's. "Only you could manage to break up with a guy you never even went out with."

Neela stabbed her chopsticks into her rice. "I'm an overachiever."

"And you're sure he's not into you? Because it sure looked like he...'feelings.'"

"I sent out all sorts of signals. I don't know what else I could do."

"Signals? What, like in code? You weren't being _subtle_, were you? With _Ray_?"

"Well what was I supposed to do?"

Abby dropped her head into her hands. "Oh, for god's sake. _Middle schoolers_ have developed a system for this. 'Do you like me? Check yes or no.' It's not brain surgery. Wait, never mind, if it was brain surgery you could probably do it."

"It's not that simple."

"If you say so."

It _wasn't_ that simple. It just couldn't be.


	7. Chapter 7

It was the oddest feeling, knocking on her own door. Except that it hadn't been her door for three days already, so she supposed she'd better get used to it. Not that she'd be coming over here often. She was only here now on a brief errand.

Three days. Was it too soon? What if it was too _late_?

_Too late for what?_ she asked herself. Just to drop by, that's all. It was nearly eleven o'clock. And he'd been awfully friendly with the nurses this week...

She knocked again more sharply, to no response. Well, if he wasn't at home she could always let herself in. She did have the key.

The place was dark except for the faint, silvery glow of streetlight. She shut the door behind her and looked around. The shadows fell in unfamiliar patterns through the negative space where her things had been. Without switching on a light, she walked to the kitchen table and moved aside magazines and breakfast dishes so she could set down her purse and the small shopping bag she'd brought with her. In the bag was his dress shirt, the one he'd worn to her wedding, laundered and neatly folded.

She'd found it last night at the bottom of a duffel full of sheets. For a good ten minutes she'd sat on the floor of Abby's living room, holding it in her lap, feeling strangely anxious and predictably morose, until she finally slipped it on and crawled into bed. This morning she even thought that if he hadn't missed it yet, she could probably keep it and he'd never even know. Then she'd seen him at work and felt ridiculous and embarrassed about the whole thing, and determined right then she'd take the first opportunity to return it, and close this whole messy chapter for good.

She looked toward his room, wondering if she should leave it on the bed. Or she could simply hang it in his closet as if it had never been gone. She wouldn't even have to leave a note, or mention she'd been here at all. Cowardly, but convenient. It would require actually going into his room, though, and there were lots of reasons she didn't feel comfortable doing that just now. She'd leave it here, then, or on the couch--

A noise from behind startled her. When she turned, it had stopped. She walked a few steps toward the living room. There it was again, a quiet rustling, like fabric, like someone moving...

She rolled her eyes and laughed a bit when she saw. It was Ray, lying on the couch in his sock feet, ankles crossed and one foot bobbing against the armrest. He wasn't asleep, but his eyes were closed, and he was wearing his expensive, noise-cancelling headphones, which explained why he hadn't heard her knocking or heard her come in. He couldn't hear a thing except whatever atrocious racket was currently blaring from his iPod directly into his skull. An open pizza box with two slices left and a glass of melting ice were on the coffee table next to him.

She was struck by how boyish he looked, and chagrined at how much affection that inspired. He looked all of fifteen. God, he must have been _impossible_ at fifteen. He was practically impossible now, at nearly thirty. Just...impossible.

She _could_ just leave the shirt and go, but that seemed a bit _too _cowardly. She leaned over and waved a hand in front of his face. No reaction.

So she yanked his headphones off.

* * *

He yelped--as much as he might have preferred a more masculine description, there really wasn't any other word--and scrambled to his feet to find Neela standing behind the couch, holding one hand to her chest and shaking with laughter.

"What are you--? That wasn't funny."

"Oh, yes it was," she nodded, giggling as he disentangled himself from his headphones, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club still buzzing out of them. "You're going to go deaf, you know. The whole point of those is so you don't have to turn it up so loud."

"Thanks, Mom," he said, but his mouth quirked up in a crooked smile. It was good to see her, and good to see her laugh. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a key, remember?"

"That's 'How'd you get in?' not 'What are you doing here?'. Did you forget something?"

Her mood seemed to suddenly get much less lighthearted. "No. No, I haven't forgotten anything." She hesitated, and then held a small paper bag out in front of her, presenting it to him almost formally. "This is yours."

He took the bag and looked inside, curious.

"I found it. Mixed up with my things. So I...I just stopped by to return it."

He reached in and pulled out the shirt, not completely realizing what it was until it fell open and unfolded between them. "...Oh. Uh."

She looked nervously to the side. "I washed it."

"Thanks." He guessed she'd probably ironed it, too, but that was wasted now that he'd bunched the collar in his fist.

"I didn't want to give it back to you at work. You know, because what would people think, right?"

"Right, yeah," he said. "What would people think."

She cleared her throat. "Anyway. That was...that's really the only reason I came over."

"Okay."

"In case you might need it or something."

"I don't think I...yeah, maybe. I can always wear it to your next wedding." He'd meant it to be a joke. Instead of laughing she drew back as if struck. "No, hey, I'm...I'm sorry. That was a dumb thing to say."

"It's all right."

"Neela..."

"No, it's all right," she assured him. "I should go. I hope this wasn't too late." She crossed to the kitchen to retrieve her purse.

"Too late for what?" he asked.

She put her hand on the doorknob and answered, "Just...too late, that's all." She opened the door and looked at him over her shoulder, lit from behind by the incandescent bulb in the hallway. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he said, just as the door clicked shut.


	8. Chapter 8

He sat hunched forward on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, and stared at the shirt in his hands for a minute before balling it up and tossing it across the room. He drained what was left of his drink and got up to make another, twice as strong, and drank it twice as fast, standing at the kitchen counter. He was on his way to number three when the front door opened again. He nearly dropped the glass in surprise.

"The thing is," she said, and began to pace, "there _was _something else. It's not...I mean, it's a little silly, I guess, but..."

He closed the door behind her and went to lean against the back of the couch, watching her with intense curiosity. He didn't know what to make of her unexpected return, or her anxious fidgeting.

"...It's just that Abby's got this crazy theory, and--well. Could I...? Can I ask you a question? Just for...you know, just for the sake of asking, I mean it isn't a huge deal or anything..."

"Okay..." He _thought_ he followed. "Shoot."

"It...it's pretty loopy."

"Loopy?"

"Com_plete_ly. So...you know, on second thought, I should probably just go..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can't drop 'loopy' and then leave me hanging, here. What's up?"

"All right... Here's the thing. In, um. In light of...recent events. I was wondering if maybe..." She took a deep breath, and exhaled toward the ceiling. "Do you like me?"

He blinked. "Do I--? What? Do I _like_ you? Neela..."

"It's fine if you don't."

"Yeah, but I do."

"I don't know if I'm being clear. What I mean is, do you like me in a way that might...extend beyond friendship in some way?"

He felt like someone had hit him over the head. "_Yes_."

"I mean, putting aside the obvious mutual physical attraction--"

"Mutual?"

She looked up at him timidly. "Unless it's not?"

"No, it totally is," he confirmed, as his pulse picked up speed. "_Extremely _mutual."

"Oh. Well. Good to know. But _putting that aside_... Do you... And really, don't feel you have to let me down easy or anything..."

"Neela--"

"Just let me say this, all right?" She looked so _nervous_, and sort of pained. He was silent and tense as he waited for her to continue. She blurted out all in one breath, "Would you by any chance have any feelings for me that might possibly be construed as romantic?"

_Holy... _All he could say was, "I...yeah."

Her head snapped up. "You do?"

He fought back a momentary surge of panic. "Is that the wrong answer?"

"No," she said, shaking her head emphatically. "No, that's...that's fine."

"'Cause...Yeah, I'm kind of crazy about you."

She looked a little dazed. "'Kind of.' So on a scale of one to ten, that's, what, a seven, or...?"

"On a scale of one to ten? Like...twenty-five."

Her eyes widened. "Really?" she whispered.

"Yeah," he nodded. "And my record's like eight-and-a-half, so--"

That's when she jumped him.

* * *

He tasted like Jack and Coke--mostly Jack--felt familiar and exciting, smelled like home. They kissed and kissed until her lips were buzzing and her tongue was tired and her fingers cramped from clutching the back of his shirt. His forehead pushed against hers, and one hand went to her hair while the other snaked under her coat and flattened against her lower back to press her body tight against his. They kissed until her heart pounded and her head spun and she made a desperate, quavering sound from her throat. She moved her hands to his face and gently, reluctantly pushed him away, though it took three more slow, soft, shallow kisses before his teeth slid over her lower lip and finally they relaxed enough so that there was sufficient space between them for coherent thought and speech.

She closed her eyes and breathed against his chest, feeling it rise and fall under her cheek. Her fingers toyed with the frayed collar of his t-shirt. "I should have asked you that weeks ago," she murmured.

He laughed and hugged her, kissed the top of her head. "Yeah, but better late than never, right?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck, hating the thought of _never_. "You could have said something, you know. I wish you'd said something."

He sighed, and pulled back so he could see her face, and she his. "You... Neela, you..."

He said it with the look on his face, the one she was finally ready to admit she'd been aching to see again for a month now.

She kissed him so hard their teeth clicked.

* * *

Her enthusiasm put him literally off balance. He ended up going flat on his back in a controlled fall onto the couch, and she clambered after him, laughing. He yanked at her shirt until her full weight was stretched out on top of him, warm and eager. He had trouble getting her coat off because she kept sliding her arms forward to feel under his shirt or tug at his hair. Finally she let him push it down over her shoulders, and she sat up to remove it the rest of the way, tossing it carelessly to the floor. He stared up at her as she straddled his hips, her chest heaving, her hair falling over her face. His hands travelled up her thighs and around her backside, his nails catching against the seams of her jeans' back pockets. She leaned over him and licked his neck--she _licked_ his _neck_--and he said, "Whoa, whoa whoa," while at the same time hooking his thumbs through her belt loops. "Before anybody's hand goes down anybody's pants--"

She nipped at his earlobe and said, "Oh, feeling ambitious tonight, are you?" Then she slid her right hand up his left thigh...and squeezed.

He made a guttural noise before getting his brain back on track enough to say, "I was just wondering..."

She nuzzled him--Neela _nuzzled_ him--and then tilted her chin up to look him in the eye. Her face hovered over his, eyes shining, lips wet and still slightly parted. "Yes?"

He grinned, and twirled a silky ribbon of her hair around his finger before tucking it back behind her ear. "Do you wanna go out sometime?"

She smiled--no, she _beamed_--and he felt that strange constriction in his upper chest that he'd felt for weeks every time he looked at her, stronger now than ever before. _He'd_ made her look that way.

"I'd like that very much."

"Cool," he said. "So are you busy this weekend? How 'bout a movie, or--?"

It was hard to finish the question with her tongue in his mouth, but he didn't mind.


	9. Chapter 9

In her first year of med school, in the midst of a long dry spell, it had become a temporary preoccupation of hers to worry that familiarity with the mundane physiological processes of arousal―blood goes there, brain does that, the whole biochemical circus―would strip sex of all its mystique, and take all the giddy thrill of foreplay along with it.

That particular hypothesis had never seemed more ridiculous.

She raised herself onto her hands and knees as he shifted into a sitting position beneath her, and resettled herself on his lap. They'd moved into a patch of light that spilled in through the window. As she peeled off his tee shirt and skimmed her hands over his chest, she admired the way her fingers looked against his skin. He drew her closer, and his hands moved purposefully across her back. With his right he gathered the hem of her shirt in his fist and pulled it over her head, while the left dipped below her waistband, his callused fingertips drawing delicate curves on sensitive skin. She closed her eyes, smoothed back her hair, and sighed.

He slipped the bra strap off her left shoulder and bent his head to kiss her there. "You're staying, right?" She leaned forward, grasping his biceps. He couldn't see her nod.

He reached around to unfasten her bra, but before he let the hook go slack she felt his hot breath through the lace--"You're going to stay?"--and then his mouth where the lace had been. She kneaded his shoulders, and shivered all over as he blew lightly on the wet skin.

"I don't know, are your sheets clean?" She smiled at the top of his head.

"Yes," he said, and guided her with his hands on her ribs as she sat back. Her bra dropped to the floor. "Well. Clean enough."

"Hm." She climbed off of him, stepped carefully over the pile of clothes beside the couch, and began backing toward his room. He jumped up to follow. "I didn't shave my legs today."

"Don't care." He closed the distance between them, but she dodged, keeping him at arm's length.

"What about protection?"

"I have condoms."

"Right, I forgot, you buy them in the economy size box."

"Is now really the time you wanna criticize me for that?"

She'd stepped over the threshold into his bedroom, and looked around as if she'd never seen the place before. "Do you ever clean up in here?"

"My roommate used to nag me about it, but she moved out, so..." He reached out and touched her abdomen, and she sprang back again.

"Maybe we should hold off a while, get tested first. It's the responsible thing to do. My last boyfriend _was_ in the army."

"You're kidding," he said, incredulous.

She raised her fingers to her lips. "Oh, no..."

"What? What is it?"

"I don't remember if I took my pill this morning."

He was momentarily stunned by that, but recovered quickly. "Wait. Are you _messing_ with me?"

She held up her thumb and forefinger and grinned evilly. "Maybe a little bit."

"Oh, that is it." He lunged for her and caught her around the middle as she turned around, laughing, to escape. "Your twenty-five just went down to a seventeen."

"Fickle. Let me know when it gets to twelve, I'll start to worry."

He held her tightly, her back against his chest, and her laughter caught in her throat and melted away as she laid her arms on top of his. His bed stretched out in front of them. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about all the previous traffic it had seen, imagined instead driving her knees into the mattress, imagined pressing him down with a shocking surge of possessiveness. Heart pounding, she tilted her pelvis back, and when she did his hand slid immediately down over the front of her jeans, between her legs, and back up again, fingers applying just the right pressure to just the right places. He undid the button, then the zipper, and touched her through the light cotton of her panties, which absolutely did not match the black lace bra earlier discarded onto the living room floor. She shuddered.

"I'm really glad you didn't get married," he said.

Not the most romantic declaration in the world, but it was enough to make her stumble toward the bed and pull him after her. He dove under the nightstand for a condom while she kicked off her jeans. She took it from him and warmed it between her palms as he stripped off the rest of his clothes. She laid back and raised her hips so he could help her slip out of her panties, and as he pulled them lower and lower his hands glided slowly over her legs.

Finally, when they were both naked, there was a brief moment of shyness, unexpected and sweet. He leaned over her, stroked his thumb across her lips, and kissed her gently.

She kissed him back, less gently, and ran her hands down his torso. _Ten minutes,_ she thought. _Ha._

* * *

She was more the gasp-and-sigh type than a moaner. Definitely not a screamer. Although she did _squeak_ once, and when he laughed she kneed him in the ribs, and smiled. Finding out what she liked, how she liked to be touched, was half the fun. He wasn't ever a guy to overthink these things, but he did take a certain amount of justifiable pride in his technique. Not that he was trying to impress her, it was just that...well, yeah, he wanted to impress her. But something about her―lots of things about her―made it kind of hard to concentrate.

The surprising thing about having sex with Neela―besides _having sex with Neela―_was how much it wasn't like he'd imagined. And he'd had plenty of practice imagining it.

The first time he'd wondered what she'd be like in bed, right after they'd met, he'd figured her for prissy and uptight. Later, he'd revised that to 'bossy and stuck in her own head.' Then it had started to feel weird to think about it, so he didn't very much. Up until a month ago his assessment had held steady at 'fun, once she got into it (but still bossy)' for quite a while.

Then her wedding didn't happen, and that night between them did. He hadn't realized how much he wanted her until then. All of a sudden he got to touch her, and then just as fast he couldn't again. He'd tried to play it off as no big thing, but she was always _there_, and always so..._her. _If sex felt good, and being with her felt good, then sex with her would feel...

But he hadn't known. He didn't know sex could be this personal. He hadn't expected how he'd need to see her face.

What she was like in bed was what she was like in every other way, which was amazing.

Her heel rubbed against the base of his spine, and he was running on instinct.

* * *

There was an initial wave of nervousness, during which she worried she'd have to wrack her brain for every _Cosmo _'How to Please Your Man' article she'd ever peered at with curiosity and dread. It wasn't that she was afraid she was _bad _at sex. She was actually quite confident in her proficiency. But she was also well aware that in sheer _breadth_ of experience, she was relatively lacking. She wondered if he had a mental playbook, or maybe a flow chart―_if girl likes A, then B_, _etc. _If so, she wasn't complaining.

She'd expected skill, and enthusiasm. What caught her by surprise was the intensity. What drove away the nervousness, anchored her in the moment, was the tenderness. She couldn't help but respond in kind.

Usually, when she felt herself coming right up to the edge, she closed her eyes. No matter how much she cared for her partner, that moment remained contained within herself, private, solitary.

Tonight, she kept her eyes open. She watched her fingers twist around his beside her head, tighter and tighter until she felt herself falling, heard her own breath as if it were wind rushing by. She looked to him in the dim light, and saw him in profile, thrumming with tension, staring into the same place where she had just been. She landed, squeezed his hand, and he followed.

* * *

Afterward, they watched TV for a while, and ate pizza in bed. She told him, "I know where we're going on our first date."

"Where?"

"To buy you a new mattress."

They were warm and drowsy, wrapped up in blankets and each other.

She traced his forearm tattoo with a feather-light fingertip, and said with a yawn, "You're such a liar."

He wrinkled his brow, confused. "What? Why?"

"'Oh, I'm not in love with you or anything,'" she mimicked, and he laughed at her terrible American accent.

After a minute, he asked, "Would that be okay with you?"

She fitted her body more closely to his. "Yeah." She pressed her lips to the pulse inside his wrist, and he closed his eyes as she said, "Yeah. That would be okay."


	10. Chapter 10

She woke to the smell of coffee. After stretching, glancing at the clock, and taking a moment to appreciate that she'd never seen the apartment from quite this angle before, she climbed out of bed and looked for something to wear. The bedroom door was open, and the radio was on in the kitchen, where she heard Ray making breakfast sounds.

"Good morning," she called, as she picked up one of his tee shirts from the back of a chair, sniffed it, and determined it 'clean enough.' "You still here?"

"I'm not on 'til noon. You want eggs?"

"Sure." When she stepped out into the kitchen, there was a full mug already set on the table for her. She picked it up and wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic. Ray was standing at the stove, humming. He appeared to be in a _very_ good mood, which made her smile and look down at her coffee. She took a sip. He'd put the sugar in it, too. "Thanks for the coffee."

"No problem." He turned to her with an easy smile, but when he saw her it softened, almost faded away. He rocked back on his heels dramatically and clapped his right hand—still holding a spatula—to his chest. "Wow. Good morning."

She'd caught of glimpse of herself in the mirror over his dresser, and hardly thought she rated a 'wow', with her eyes puffy and her hair half out of a ponytail she'd put in during a bathroom trip in the middle of the night. "What?" she asked, self-conscious and suddenly bashful.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head, but his eyes gave away the lie.

"Come on," she pressed.

"Nothing," he repeated, and turned back to the stove. Now _he_ seemed a bit shy. "Just…that's pretty much the best thing I've ever seen. That's all."

The hem of the black tee she'd slipped on skimmed her legs at mid-thigh, covering her to a modest enough degree, but as she stood barefoot in his kitchen that still felt like hers, too, she felt naked again.

It felt sort of wonderful.

Not knowing what to say, she folded one leg underneath her and settled into a chair.

"So do I get breakfast every time I stay over, or is this a limited time offer?"

"Are you kidding? You've got the deluxe package. Lifetime membership."

When she heard that her mug skipped against the table a little, coffee sloshing over the rim as she set it down. She saw him grimace as he realized what he'd said.

"Uh, I mean. You know. Scrambled or fried?"

"What?"

"Eggs? Or I could make an omelet. With…" He opened the refrigerator and hid behind the door as he took inventory. "Hot dogs. Huh. Or…" She heard the crisper drawer open. "Celery?" he said skeptically. "Is this yours?"

She laughed. "Scrambled is fine."

"So I was thinking," he said, as he set two plates on the table and joined her.

"Uh oh," she teased.

He smirked at her over the rim of his juice glass. "I was _thinking…_maybe if you wanted to bring some of your stuff back over…"

"Oh." She put down her fork. "I don't…I think maybe that isn't a good idea."

"Okay," he said quickly, and turned his attention back to his food. "Yeah, that's—"

"It's not that—"

"No, sure, I know," he nodded.

"It's just that this…" He looked as uncomfortable as she felt trying to navigate this tricky new terrain. "Well there's a way of doing these things, isn't there? I mean there's a general sort of procedure people follow. You start dating, have sex, fall in love, and move in together. Not…not completely the other way 'round, usually."

She watched his face as he processed this, what she'd just said without saying it. Without _intending_ to say it, certainly. But also, to her great amazement and relief, without regretting it, either.  
"Okay," he said, but like he meant it this time. "So you want to do this like normal people, is what you're saying."

"We could try it," she said. "Sounds crazy, I know…"

"Yeah," he said, and reached across the table to touch her wrist. "Yeah, we could try."

* * *

He drove her back to Abby's place—her place—so she could get ready for work, and after an awkward minute double parked in front of the building, she said, "You might as well park and come up. You know, if you want to."

He did. She left the door unlocked for him, and when he came in he didn't see her, but he heard the shower running, so he sat down on the couch to wait. As he leaned forward to reach for the TV remote, he noticed that the bathroom door was open. That explained why the rushing sound of the shower was so loud, seemed so close. He turned the volume up on the TV and began flipping through the channels, but he wasn't paying attention. He was distracted.

The bathroom door was open…

He put down the remote without turning off the TV and walked slowly down the hall. He stood in the doorway and saw her silhouette behind the shower curtain.

"Hey," he said, but she didn't hear him.

He walked hesitantly up to the side of the tub, and when she noticed him, she stuck her head out from behind the curtain and said, "Yes?"

"I, um, I know that this is pretty new, and we don't really have our signals worked out yet, but you left the door open, so I thought maybe…"

She grinned. "What took you so long?"

* * *

At work that day, Abby gave him a funny look in the middle of working on a tension pneumo. As they were cleaning up afterward, she did it again. "What?" he asked.

"You smell pretty," she said. "What is that, Bath and Body Works?"

He ducked his head and smiled, his expression giving her all the confirmation she needed.

She tilted her head at him, narrowed her eyes appraisingly. One side of her mouth quirked up briefly. As she turned to leave the room she threw back over her shoulder, "Don't fuck it up, Goofus."

He laughed, and then squinted, bemused. "...'Goofus'?"


	11. Epilogue

"I think this went okay, don't you?" He murmured this to her temple. They were less dancing than just leaning against each other and swaying, the last people on the floor. She was barefoot.

"I think so," she agreed. "My dad even looks happy."

"Well, he's had three years to get used to me."

Her hair was pulled up at the sides, the rest falling down her back in waves, and he combed his fingers through it idly. She sighed. "Did I tell you you look nice today?" she asked.

He pulled back a little, and said, "Thank you. See? I told you I didn't need a tux."

"Yes, but you know I only caved on that because you agreed not to play with the band."

"Yeah, well, it's all about compromise, right?"

"So they say." She stroked his chest lightly. "Is this…?" She looked up at him, surprised.

He covered her henna-painted hand with his. "Yeah, well. I said I'd wear it to your next wedding."

She shook her head fondly. "Oh, Ray Barnett. You sentimental fool."

He held her tighter. The red and gold silk of her sari crinkled enticingly under his hands. "Can we go home now?" he whispered.

She laid her head against his shoulder, and smiled with her whole heart.

"I'm ready when you are."


End file.
